Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Thursday, February 21, 2008

"Cheap seats mean putting up with the "rabble". And I mean mouthy locals whowill drive you crazy. Upstairs in the Balcony where dwell the "Gallery Gawds"who sit in judgement. They occasionally throw crap. It's true...and embarrassingbut iDigress..."

Upon arrival at the police station, the way the officers chose to move us from the cruiser to our holding cells was much like a poorly planned ballet. Lots of stuttered movements, looks and questions that told you this was the first time we’d done this. Once inside the station, the ballet continued. At this point, it was rather evident that the officer moving me about was the freshman officer. At first, he almost put me in a cell with Jim, until he was quickly corrected, and I was put into a cell that was about the size of a powder room. Enough room for a toilet, sink and a spot that I could sit. The door had a large window in it that composed nearly half of the door, and below that a slot that I’d assume was for food to be passed though. The toilet and sink were metal, as was the seat. Everything else was concrete. They had left my handcuffs on, so it was entirely impossible to find a comfortable position to wait in. So now came the wait. I began to do what I always do when I have nothing else to do, make music. At first I hummed just a wee bit, and was surprised to find out just how well the sound reverberated in my small concrete and metal cell. Then I spent a few moments humming different pitches to find the resonant frequency of my cell. Once I had the resonant frequency, I began throwing my voice and creating overtones. Shortly after beginning that, I realized that it must just sound like noise outside, after all, it was so loud inside my cell, it started to just sound like noise, so instead I switched to actual songs. I began to sing Wade in the Water, and found that it was incredible singing with such acoustics. Sure, it was incredibly loud, as well as entertaining to the ears, as sounds continued to echo back to you several seconds after they had originally been made. Later, I came to find out the officers who were booking Terrence asked him “what the hell is that”, to which he replied, “probably my buddy Aaron”. A short while later, and it was my turn to be booked.

One of the first things they did when they booked me was remove the handcuffs, for which I was deeply grateful. Then they took my shoes, my wallet, my phone, my keys ... everything I had on me that wasn’t strictly clothing. They opened up my wallet and removed the money in there, and seized it, saying it was proceeds from assumed drug sales. I then went through the long process of providing them with personal information. The most important bit of information I later learned from the police report was that my ethnicity was “not Hispanic”. One of the following questions made me question the ability of the cop interrogating me on this information though. He asked if I had taken any drugs or alcohol that day. Considering that they had smelled the burnt cannabis in the car, you’d think that the answer to that question would be obvious ... apparently you are wrong too.

Now came the part of the booking where I was able to shine, the educational part of my arrest. The police had no clue what a few of the things they had confiscated were. First off, they wanted to know whether the DMT was safe to handle, or whether it would pose serious health risks for the officers. Once it was established that they had nothing to fear from the substance that they held, they began to ask questions regarding the substances. They mainly had questions regarding the DMT, as it was something they had never even heard of (and indeed, were required to look up on wikipedia in order to obtain information on it). The part that I was most amused by was the section on their printout from wiki that described the effects of DMT. Since that time, the wiki entry has been edited, but here is the excerpt that made me laugh, and reminded me just why I enjoyed DMT so much:

Like LSD but often more intense. Since it is not taken by mouth, the effects come on suddenly and can be overwhelming. The term "mind blowing" might have been invented for this drug. The experience was described by Alan Watts as like "being fired out of the nozzle of an atomic cannon" (Leary 1968a p.215). Thoughts and visions crowd in at great speed; a sense of leaving or transcending time and a feeling that objects have lost all form and dissolved into a play of vibrations are characteristic. The effect can be like instant transportation to another universe for a timeless sojourn.”

I discussed the multiple fashions in which you could take DMT, the effects produced by each of these methods, the danger in each of those methods, and bits and pieces of random knowledge that were not worthwhile to the officers, but were nevertheless informative. At one point in our discussion the officer asked me if I had gone to school for chemistry, to which I replied, “No, you just have to know what you are doing if you do the things I do. If you aren’t careful you can physically or mentally hurt yourself.” In part I said this because earlier they had lectured me about my use and how dangerous it was. I wanted to impart on them that it is a lack of knowledge and care that make drugs dangerous; just as a doctor who prescribes medications without thought or care. Whether or not they grasped this point was not something I cared to explore at this time.

I continued to educate the officers on DMT, then also on keef, which I explained to them were the crystals of nearly pure THC from a marijuana plant. They couldn’t seem to grasp that it wasn’t an extraction, but rather just a collection of the crystals. They never really grasped this point though, but figuring that they haven’t had much experience in knowing the difference between good pot and really good pot, I suppose I shouldn’t hold that against them ... or I could, because I thought I explained it to them quite clearly, but then again, I was the one who had been smoking pot earlier.

After finishing my lecture on drugs, it was time to be fingerprinted. After a bit of struggling to remove a band-aid, I rolled my blackened fingers across the sheet of paper knowing that from now on, if I plan to commit a crime, I’d better use gloves. The officer then led me to a wall, where my mug shot was taken, and where I enjoyed a bit of a chuckle at my own Raising Arizona moment, “Turn to the right, show the tattoo”. I kept the laughter to myself though, as I assumed they wouldn’t appreciate the humor, and even if they did, I was the only one who really needed amusing at the moment.

I was then led back to my cell, at which time I asked for a blanket because the jail was incredibly cold, and I was no longer wearing shoes. A short while later, the officer returned with a blanket, which helped, but only a little, as I still had to sit on metal or walk on concrete that was nice and chilly. Eventually though, I laid down on the big stainless steel bench, wrapped myself in the blanket and fell asleep. From what I’ve been told, people who are able to sleep in jail are those who have generally come to terms with their incarceration. I was pretty much there. There was nothing I could do about it, and I believed I was going to be staying there for some time. I was in and out of sleep for several hours, mainly because they had an officer walk by the cells now and then to check on the state of the prisoners. Each time he passed my cell, he tapped on the window to wake me up and make sure I was OK. I would have been much better had no not continued to wake me up, but I was there for punishment I suppose.

After several hours had passed, the officer came around to each of our cells asking if there was someone we could call to come bail us out. Jim took the lead on this and went to call our friend Eric who had taken a different vehicle down to the Cape. Shortly thereafter, the officer came to my cell and let me out, saying my friend had just posted bail and that once I collected my (legal) belongings, I was free to leave, though not before signing a document promising my appearance in Court on Monday. Before they returned my bag, which had previously held the buffet of drugs, the officer gave it another once-over to make sure he didn’t miss anything. I actually chuckled aloud at this, and told him not to worry, he definitely got it all. With my bag in hand, I waltzed happily out of the station, and then right back into the station where my buddies were waiting. The waiting continued, but slowly both Terrence and Jim were released. Terrence was first, and we all left the building for the parking lot, where we continued to wait for Jim. Once Jim exited the building, he came to us and told us he had convinced the officers to let us retrieve our coolers of meat from his impounded vehicle. Technically, the officers broke the rules by allowing us this concession, but we were greatly thankful for their generosity on this front, as to waste such a great selection and quantity of good meats would have been a travesty. The only things we were able to take back from the police were the coolers of meat, and my bag. Both Terrence and Jim were forced to leave without their clothes or other belongings, yet I had been the one who had been charged with the many felonies.

After 6 hours of incarceration, we loaded the coolers of meat into Eric’s car, and began our second attempt at a trip down to the beach house on the Cape.

So good to see you once again...I said to this post. I was thinking about an Issue Number Zero in the Spirit of this week's OCHO. The Issue Zero concept starts in the FunnyBook World. Back when the Comics Gnome was just starting to POOT more than two titles and back when I started this Blog I made wrote Issue #0 of the the "Comics Gnome POOTS". Back then I was simply "Tawkin' Cawmiks..."

Seeing that the dead air left by the hiatus of “Rev. Kiwi Speaks Her Mind” has spawned nothing but mosquitoes and the usual Preacher Matt/Rev. Sully banter…I’ve decided to talk about something I really enjoy. And that is COMICS. I affectionately refer to them as “Funny Books”.

I’ve always loved comics as a medium for stories. It’s really primal you know. Like drawing on the cave’s walls but with onomatopoeia, bulging muscles, fantastic powers and spandex suits.

I had an impressive comic book collection when I was a kid. Spent years of time, money and imagination on it. I actually did not purchase much Green Lantern then. I was into Batman, the Big Blue Boy Scout occasionally. Definitely into the Uncanny X-Men. Spider-Man titles. Ghost Rider. G.I. Joe. The Transformers. Justice League. Daredevil. Even crappy comic adaptations/continuations like “V”. So many issue #1s. So many Mylar plastic bags and backboards. One of my darkest childhood memories was when I was failing in school about 6th grade. I wasn’t failing…just “underachieving”, “not applying myself”, “not using my potential”, “distracted” et al. Sound familiar to you? Has this song sung to you? Well…I got busted with reading funny books while I should have been paying attention to class. And my mother threw them out. All of them. All. I sat there on garbage day and watched the neighborhood dirt neck kids fall on my collection like carrion and kites. I felt a piece of my imagination was stripped from me…I felt lobotomized…traumatized…powerless…castrated…it taught me something I’d relearn later in life about how your opinion and wishes do not matter in the face of the power of someone else’s choice. That something you work so hard on and put so much love into, time and respect and wonder all can be erased without someone else’s decision and you have to sit there and watch the whole damned thing. No return on an investment and front row seat for madness and misery. But I digress…^_~

But I always had a space in my heart for comics. I wasn’t allowed to collect them again until I was well into my teenage years. Being a proto-latchkey key, I would kill time by hanging out in my favorite comic book store. It really was the only one of its kind at its time…before the market became saturated, before New England Comics started popping up. Back when you could still get back issues at Newbury Comics, before it was a CD/kitsch store it really was a comic store. The store was called “Super Hero Universe III”. I had no clue where or when 1 & 2 were. It was located on the corner of Washington Street and Winter Street in Downtown Crossing. I’d visit my grandfather who worked at Jordan Marsh across the street. He’d always give me a handshake like a lobbyist to a politician. So I always had a little pocket scratch…and a secret stash too. Today there’s a Sam Goody there. But then…you could see it from the street level but how the hell would you get in…it was like the Batcave entrance. The stairs were about three doors down Winter St in one of those old office buildings entrances. A rickety Otis not worth the wait seeing it was on the second floor. A maze of hallways and finally you would hear the music…then see a hallway littered with cardboard long boxes…you know…for storage. It was my Fortress of Solitude. It was My Refuge. It was sad to see it go. It moved three times before it went the way of the T-Rex and Macarena.

So now…early in the 21st Century, comics have survived their brush with self-destruction by creating a renaissance in the medium with bold styles, mature storylines and going back to a reader focused paradigm and abandoning a collector’s market based one. Apparently nobody did care when two competing comic companies crossover with different foil covers when there is no quality in content. Both Marvel and their “Distinguished Competition” have accepted the place of their new competition in the indies and what they bring to the table. Both Marvel and DC have gone to printing trade paperbacks and reissuing reprints of multiple issues in one-issue formats. It is about the story now and not necessarily about having a first-printing, direct edition, mint condition, Mylar bagged Issue #0 available only through the Wizard.

With the surge in popularity of movie adaptations of these comics, now is an excellent time to jump on board or even rekindle interest in things you grew up reading. Marvel dropped the Comic Code giving more latitude for direction without constraint. DC bought Wildstorm and published cutting edge, mature stories. Heroes are no longer being deconstructed…they’re being reconstructed and not with new locales, sidekicks and an obligatory new costume. It’s going back to basics with grittier stories, better art and great dialog. The art direction and leaps in quality of publishing is astounding. You should see what is being done with just colors and graphics of the printing these days.

I’ll be “tawkin’ cawmiks” more and more. I hope I can suggest things you will pick up. I am so thrilled that Leah has GA: Quiver and will eventually get to Batman: The Long Hallowe’en. Serialized entertainment is not a lost art form. It is alive in well and waiting on the shelves of your local comic book store. Cliffhangers will keep you coming for more. Movies cannot do that in a consistent fashion for demand. Television can but only lately with the advent of the Cable Station being able to provide mature, cutting edge shows but there is something that the French refer to as “Je ne sais quoi” about a comic. It’s portability, it tactile nature, getting lost in the panels, rereading them at a whim…it provides something that the televised medium lacks.

In the spirit of what I'm referring to as "OCHO: Issue #0" I'd like to explain myself a bit.

I love my iPod. Wow. And if you don't have one then you truly do not know what you are missing.

A technological snowball effect happened once I became enrapt with the little box I call the "Great Gadget". I actually became more "wired" than ever.

So I did what I've always done...I wrote about it. I wanted to keep track of this experience. Of a gizmo about the size of my high school copy of Bon Jovi's "Slippery When Wet" that holds days worth of music.

This was my first iPod. My first time with a digital music collection. CDs in their jewel boxes gather dust under my bed in a cardboard box not unpacked for two moves. I've loved vinyl LPs, I had Stereo-8 tape as my first requested & gifted childhood music (KISS Dynasty played on my 2-XL educational toy

2-XL was a great gadget...but a glorified 8-Track player.

I was there for the advent and demise of the Compact Cassette.

Ever have a threadbare Walkman? I once had a no-Radio cassette player. The cassette holder piece with the hindge came off. The battery door was missing. I had to keep the Play button pressed with my thumb. How many cassettes were cluttered without cases in the corner of my kit bag. What about the front seat of your car, huh?

Then the CD Revolution came.

I used to scare friends with such random thoughts such as, "keep a stash of dead batteries on you at all times...they come in handy to huck at douchebags". Well...where do you think I got all those dead batteries, eh? I'm actually looking at a 100-disc changer stereo component in the living room of my Flat...I'm reminded of those CD changer boxes in car trunks as well...

In the Waning Daze of the 20th Century, making mix CDs on Windows98 machines was new...and fun. Keeping CD tracks as files on a harddrive as an idea had "new car smell". I too raided the nacent Napster. LimeWire and BearShare came later. I remember fondly the last thing to successfully pirate off the IntrePoop like that was crappy bootleg of STAR WARS EPISODE II: THE ATTACK OF THE CLONES. It took two days to download and it fit on 2 CDs viewable with DiVX...but iDigress...

The New Order of the Ages...for $.99 via the iTunes Music Store I can purchase songs as singles.

My mom bought this 30GB 5th Generation iPod Video for me in November 2005. If I I didn't start using it until February 2006. I didn't have the one component necessary to enjoy the iPod...a bloody personal computer. My best friend, who for myriad of personal and legal reasons is referred to as "Meathead" in this Channel OCHO narrative, allowed me use of his ancient Dell laptop. It was a great placed to start but quickly I was overcome by memory contraints. Then an upgrade...my Apple PowerBook G4 fell into my lap from the esteemed OCHO Emeritus Doctor Hooey. Then the gloves were off...and my eyes were opened to the future. I no longer "steal" music off of the IntrePoop...though I do raid my friends' collections frequently. Through accumulating all these differnt genres and music cultures I have the most eclectic mix and shuffle. I do end up listening to the gadget all day long.

The iPod Video became the iPod Classic. My next iPod will be leaps and bounds better then the 6thGen now available. I'll wait until this one I got is threadbare and held together with duct tape & hope. I probably got a year or two left to this little box I named Solaris the Tyrant Sun after a super-computer Superman villian. Everytime "iRawk", iCount. I went from 127 tracks on my first walks to the train up to now with over 6,000. My collection keeps growing...too bad I can only bring so many songs with me on the road.

"iRawk...therefor iPod" is my online diary of love letters to my constant sidekick, my iPod. Sure...I bet you think you got better taste in music than me. But honestly...my taste might be yours especially if I get my hands on your harddrive.

'namaste...

iCount:6,086 on the iPod9,141 on the iTunes8 hours of battery life on a good dayStill got a median line of lost illumination on the display2 years of contant useHappy 2nd Birthday, Solaris

Unfortunately for me, he instead chose to open my bag, and I just continued to sit on the curb. Immediately after he opened my bag, the shit hit the fan, so to speak. Immediately he produced a bubble-wrapped freebase pipe, with residual drug still inside. He immediately asks whose bag it is that he's holding, and without hesitation, I reply that it is mine. Immediately the mild interrogation starts, "You using this to smoke meth?" I reply emphatically that I am in no way using that to smoke meth. He asks what I'm using it for, and I reply that I use it to smoke DMT. He asks me what DMT is, and I explain that it is a hallucinogen. At this point, the other officer comes around and asks me to stand up. He puts me in cuffs and moves me around to the back door of his cruiser, puts me inside and goes back to check on the officer who is still inspecting the pipe. They are both rather surprised at how foul and potent the smell of the residual DMT in the pipe is. Their exclamations can be heard, even though the doors and windows the vehicle are closed.

The officer who just put me in his vehicle comes back over to me, and begins his mild interrogation. He wants to know why I do this drug. My reply, unsurprisingly to me, is not very convincing to him: it has a profound and beautiful effect on the mind. He begins to lecture me, rambling off something to this effect, "Why would you do a drug like that, did you smell it, why would you put that in your body, it could kill you! If you really want to hallucinate, you should just stick to mushrooms." After he finishes lecturing me on which hallucinogens I should and should not do, he leaves the window and heads back up to the front of the vehicle to join the other officer in the continuing search through my bag. In the back of their vehicle, I just drop my head and shake it, because I knew something that they didn't know .... yet. No more than ten seconds after he finished lecturing me about doing mushrooms instead of DMT, the cop searching my bag opens another pocket of it and exclaims, "WHOA!!!!!". He lifts his head up, along with his hand that is grasping several little baggies of goodies, one of which is filled with mushrooms. At that point, if I weren't still under the impression that I was going to prison for the next decade of my life, I would have laughed, but at the moment, it wasn't quite as funny.

After finding the bags of pot and mushrooms, they find other little bits of drugs in the same pocket. They find vial of pure DMT, which they ask me if it will pose a health risk for them to be coming into contact with, along with a medicine bottle of keef, which they are also curious about, mainly because they just found a powder with substances that they've never heard of, and are scared of because of the odors they produce. I explain to them that both substances are completely safe to handle. They open one more pocket on my bag and find the last of the illegal substances in my bag, a jar of brewed Ayahuasca labeled M-16. The officer continues to search the vehicle, at one point in time coming over to ask us why we had 5 pounds of poppy seeds. Honestly, we reply that they were going to be used to make an opiate tea. The officer tells us that he can't do anything about it, since as seeds they are perfectly legal.

At this point in time, we are notified that a drug dog is on its way to the scene to thoroughly inspect the vehicle, and that we'll now be heading to the police station for processing.

At this point in time, the following have been discovered and confiscated from the vehicle:

1. Bag of pot in front seat of vehicle2. Pipe in front seat of vehicle3. Freebase pipe with residual DMT4. Pot grinder with pot inside5. 3 baggies of pot6. Bag of mushrooms7. Vial of pure DMT8. Medicine bottle of keef9. Brewed Ayahuasca10. Additional bag of pot from another bag in trunk11. 5 pounds of poppy seeds (not confiscated, because as seeds they are legal)

Hello! And "Namaste". Welcome to the Smoking PUCK brought to you by Rev. Sully & the Channel OCHO Blog here at Blogger. I use an intense personal Spirituality trying to make sense of this ever-changing world in the hopes of changing hearts & minds to take time out of their busy schedules to watch a Hockey game. Akin to the opening monologue of the baseball movie "Bull Durham", I kind-of belong to the "Church of Hockey". Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes you make the Playoffs. You shoot the Puck, you pass the Puck, you Score & Save...there are line changes and lines for the restrooms at the games. Life is like a Hockey Game. The Smoking PUCK intends to peak your interest in something you may be missing. The Ying & Yang of Sports...a game of sheer brutality & utter grace.

An Issue #0 is a gimmick. A jump-on spot for new readers. Somewhere in the adventure of this issue, the title's origin will be told. That's simple: this PUCK burns brightly in Massachusetts...home of the NHL's Boston Bruins Hockey Club. In the Winter, the Northeast is besieged by snow & ice along with most of the rest of Northern America & Canada. Ice Hockey as a sport is North America's greatest cultural export, played around the world in countries where Snow is a Part of Everyday Life 6 months out of the year. Boston, the proverbial "Hub of the Universe" is home to many champion professional sporting teams although the Pro Hockey Bruins are a bit of the secret shame of the rabid local Sports Culture. The Bruins consistently for about a decade have been little more than mediocre...awash in a sea of champion expectation respect is hard to earn when this pudding's proof left a foul taste.

On the Other Hand, I keep the Flame lit. I keep hope alive. I am a Red Sox fan, dammit. I understand Sports-related Heartache. The best way to enjoy the Boston Bruins is to go see them live. Cheap tickets are now always available for most games on Tuesday & Thursday Night. Games start at 7:00PM and are usually out by 9:50PM with a shootout. Cheap seats mean putting up with the "rabble". And I mean mouthy locals who will drive you crazy. Upstairs in the Balcony where dwell the "Gallery Gawds" who sit in judgement. They occasionally throw crap. It's true...and embarrassing but iDigress...

The greatest excuse NOT to watch Hockey is that the puck is too small to follow on a television screen. The 3" diameter black puck on white ice surface is harder to follow than a 2 1/2" diameter white baseball on sky & grass? Now on HDTV??? Doesn't fly with me, flapjack. The Smoking PUCK also talks about numbers often. Such as SIX shots on net last night in the 3rd period??? C'Mon, guys! Or...#17 Milan Lucic. And also .926...the Save Percentage of Bruins starting Goaltender Tim Thomas. Tim the Tank saved 45 of 47 shots last night. Wow!!! Also think of the goalie's Goals Against Average (GAA) as the statistic equal to a baseball pitcher's Earned Run Average. In 41 games played Tim Thomas has a GAA of 2.41...if this was Josh Beckett's ERA what would you think, mouthbreather?

With the NHL trade deadline coming up, The Smoking PUCK thinks that tradewise in the NHL there is nothing stirring in the Pot this 2007-08 Season. No blockbuster deals...No Gretzky to L.A, No Lindros to Philly...No Espo to NYC. I keep track at the NHL Big Bored. I am being clever. I like clever. I try to use "clever" in most copy found throughout Channel OCHO. "Clever" is an essential PUCK ingredient. You might receive your weekly nutritional allowance of "clever" with a PUCK or two. Want to know how the Bruins have fared to as of today? Read the recent archive.. As of today, the Bruins (referred to as "we" frequently) are in 3rd place in their division and 7th in the Eastern Conference. 7 out of 8 playoff spots. So far, the Bruins can make the Playoffs nonetheless with 23 games remaining in the regular season, there is still room for a race down the stretch. There is a bargain here...a classic "if/then statement" if you will...if the Bruins continue to win games & play well, then they will make the Playoffs (affectionately called "the Second Season" due to their excruciating length).

The Smoking PUCK burning brightly to illuminate the culture of Boston Sports toughest toughlove. Check us out usually once a week in season although the management reserves the right to work an extra day a week. Hey...I could be cleaning the apartment or doing errands or even earning more money at work. But I'd rather talk Hockey with you for a few minutes of your day. And that makes my day. So lace 'em up, put on the foil and tape up your stick...the pipe organ is playing and the ice is waiting for you to skate.

Friday, February 01, 2008

I'd have something to say about the Comics Gnome stack, The Smoking PUCK's Hockey musings especially since I went to a game with Meathead on Tuesday...Or about my love affair with my sidekick, the iPod or even more about what was my favorite tee shirt.

Because I'm reading this book in my free time. Upon Kiwi's suggestion, it is a sequal as well.

My favorite Tee would have to be my Lincoln High School Football shit. That thing is so threadbare, but oddly enough without many holes at all, that it feels like I'm wearing nothing at all. And as a generalization, when it isn't cold outside, I'd rather be wearing nothin, so almost nothing suits me. Almost like the body glove action, but not so snug.